so says the straw hat

Our lives got quiet then. We have finished having the kinds of parties where everyone dances until five in the morning, where the punch bowls get spilt on the floor and by the end people have given up on mixing drinks all together because nobody really does know who that one guy in the suit is and we aren’t sure whose locked themselves up in the downstairs bedroom, but chances are they don’t live here and does anybody know why Jodi is taking her panties off in the stairwell again? And we don’t throw parties, don’t throw much of anything. Don’t need to. Our lives got knit-a-sweater quiet. Cut the corn off the cob kind of quiet. Quiche and Frittata and knowing the difference quiet. We have finished with the lost boys. The ones we fucked to keep them quiet and then sent home before the sun came in the window because we needed our sleep. Done with the recycled boys who took turns being something that was better than nothing between the sheets and when we looked up we laughed because we

1. Patrick Swayze died. Cancer strikes again. RIP. Time to put on my tutu, make some cupcakes, and watch Dirty Dancing. 2. This sentence I came across is funny: "It is a fact: You may add two years to your life by one vigorous hour of exercise a day..." Mostly it is funny that it is a FACT that one MAY blah blah blah. Sort of like saying, "It is a fact: You may like the color purple...." Whatever world. Can't pull the wool over my eyes.

It was set with a haunting feeling of discontent. I was on stage or in a production, then my dad or a friend appeared carrying a handful of yellow construction paper, struggling to keep it out of the elements. For cutting out the moons! They said, full of hope and concern. I knew this was true.

When Grady was six-and-a-half he started talking about the animals that lived under the ground. I would like to live on a dinghy in the middle of the ocean. Set up home in a moon divot. Cell phones are fucktards. Fact. Ask it to spell fucktard, or divot. It ain’t winning no spelling bee for damned sure. Mostly, guys say around 60-70% of their friends are fuckable. At least sort of. Let me clarify "mostly" as the four guys I asked. Grady thought that under this layer of earth was a whole 'nother planet. World on top of world. Under us is teeming with animals. At six-and-a-half the end of the street is the earth's curve. I keep my phone on silent. All the time. Imagine a boat carved from Ivory soap, perch it on a porch rail. Get in. Wait for rain. Andrew said 63.89%. Andrew is funny. The .89 because he has more than 100 friends. He was including both sexes. This number is both surprisingly high and low. Did Grady's plastic shovel ever hesitate above th